Suzanne felt Philippe’s forehead. It was scorching. Guessing that chills would follow soon, she pulled the ragged covers over him. “How long has he had this fever?”
“Two or three days. I think it comes from worry and exhaustion, or I’d have it, too.” Marie’s voice was a whisper. “I can do nothing to help but sponge him off with cool water when the fever burns worst.”
Bemused, Simon had quietly followed them inside, willing to let Suzanne take the lead. He leaned the discharged rifle against the wall, then offered Marie his arm in a courtly gesture. “Madam?” After leading her to the nearest chair, he asked, “Are you only recently arrived here? It doesn’t appear that you’ve had time to settle in.”
“You are most tactful,” Marie said with a weary wisdom beyond her years. “We’ve been here only about a fortnight after walking halfway across Europe. Philippe was sure that when we arrived, we’d find the home he has been yearning for. Instead, this.” Her gesture included the abandoned, devastated château.
Simon leaned against the table, his arms crossed unthreateningly, while Suzanne took the other chair. “I’m familiar with the Duval family,” Suzanne said with massive understatement. “Where does Philippe fall on the family tree?”
“He’s the son of the last comte to live here before the wars drove him out. Jean-Louis Duval.”
What? Concealing her shock, Suzanne said, “I knew Jean-Louis well. He had a wife, but no children.”
“Philippe never met his father’s very grand second wife. His father said that the woman was a shrew and he didn’t want his only son to be persecuted by her.”
“How . . . protective of Jean-Louis,” Suzanne said in a somewhat choked voice. “Who was Philippe’s mother?”
“She was the daughter of a farmer, so beautiful that the young comte fell instantly in love with her.” Marie smiled fondly at her husband. “You see how very beautiful Philippe is. But his mother died in childbed, and the comte was so heartbroken that he couldn’t bear to have his son in his house because he looked so much like his mother.”
“How was he raised?”
“His father took him to his mother’s family. They loved him and cared for him well, so the comte only visited his son occasionally. He gave Philippe his gold ring engraved with the Chambron arms and encouraged him to learn farming so that someday he would be able to manage the full estate of Château Chambron.”
“Then the wars began and everyone’s plans shattered,” Suzanne said. “Jean-Louis left with the second wife and died before he could return.”
“Years later Philippe learned that his father and the wife had died on shipboard during a corsair attack.” Marie sighed. “Philippe wanted to return here to claim his inheritance, but he was an officer in the Grande Armée and he wasn’t free to come back until after the emperor abdicated.”
Suzanne’s startled glance flicked to Simon, whose expression reflected her own shock. So the self-proclaimed new comte was a Bonapartist. Wonderful.
Suzanne felt a sudden desire to giggle. How Jean-Louis would have hated the very idea! Simon didn’t look enthralled either, but he was unlikely to hold Napoleon against a young couple in such distress. At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
“Outside, you said you might be relatives,” Marie said. “How are you connected to Philippe?”
“I’m a Duval by marriage, like you. My husband is a second cousin to the late Comte de Chambron, so he’s also a cousin to Philippe.” A second cousin once removed? Suzanne would work that out later. “Do you have any means of support? Can the family who raised Philippe take you in?”
“We did go there, but strangers are living in the house and they drove us off. We came here because there was nowhere else to go.” Marie smiled wryly. “I found some root vegetables in the old gardens and Philippe was able to snare some rabbits before he fell ill. I don’t know how. . .” She stopped speaking, her expression bleak as she pressed her hand to the curve of her belly.
Deciding it was time to reveal who she was, Suzanne said, “I am doubly a Duval by marriage because I was Jean-Louis’s wife. The grand one, though I didn’t feel very grand.”
When Marie shrank back as if Suzanne were a poisonous viper, Simon said reassuringly, “Her shrewishness was much exaggerated. I find her remarkably good tempered.”
Not looking convinced, Marie asked, “Is this château your home?”
“Not anymore. I was very young when I married Jean-Louis and I knew nothing of his legal affairs. I have no idea who the heir is. That’s for the lawyers to decide.” She leaned forward and took Marie’s hand in both of hers. “What I do know is that we are kin and you need proper food and a proper house and Philippe needs medical care. Our home is in England, but we have been recently visiting in Brussels. You must come and stay with us until your husband is well and the situation is sorted out.”
A small sound came from Simon. Suzanne turned and gave him a look that dared him to disagree with her. He gave a short nod of acceptance.
Suzanne rose. “It’s too late in the day to make the whole trip to Brussels, but we can stay at an inn tonight and get some proper food into you.”
Marie bit her lip as she looked at her husband. “Travel will be hard on him.”
“Staying here will be even harder.” Suzanne glanced at Simon. “We can manage in the coach, can’t we?”
“I’ll ride outside,” he said. “We can lay a shutter across the inside seats to create a platform long enough for Philippe to lie on. You and Marie can sit on the other ends of the seats and make sure that he isn’t jostled off on a rough road.”
“That should work,” Suzanne agreed. “Marie, what possessions do you want to take with you?”
Marie was too exhausted to protest being carried off by near strangers. “We have very little.” She stood and pulled a canvas bag from a pile of neatly folded garments. It took only moments to add their pathetically few belongings. As she tucked a stained, folded shirt on top, she said, “The most valuable thing we own is Philippe’s rifle.”
“I’ll take charge of that,” Simon said. “I think you’ll understand that I prefer to keep it out of his reach until he’s in his right mind again.”
Marie nodded and looked around to see if there was anything else to take with her. Despite the couple’s acute poverty, Marie was well spoken and seemed gently bred. Suzanne asked, “Are you French? You have a slight accent I’m not familiar with.”
“I’m from Lorraine, where there is much influence from Germany, but we are still French.” She cocked her head curiously. “And you? You seem entirely French, but you said that you and your husband live in England?”
“I am French and he is half French and half English. He is equally at home in both countries.” Better not to mention that he was an officer in the British army until some later date.
Simon stepped outside and called Jackson in. Together they wrenched a battered shutter about the right size from a window and laid it across the left side of the coach. They padded the top by folding the young couple’s pallet in half and laying it over the shutter.
Then they wrapped Philippe in the remaining blankets and carried him to the carriage. He was unconscious of being moved and his breathing was labored. Marie sat on the forward seat and held his hand—the hand that bore the Chambron signet ring.
Suzanne sat opposite on the rear seat, ready to help hold Philippe on his makeshift bed if the carriage lurched badly. She silently prayed that they’d get this young couple to civilization in time.
They set off with Simon sharing the outside driver’s seat with Maurice and Jackson. It was a tight fit but manageable. Maurice set the horses at a slow pace to minimize jostling of the sick passenger.
Marie was almost as exhausted as her husband. By the time they reached the main road, she was folded over, dozing with her head on her husband’s shoulder, still holding his hand.
Suzanne wondered how all this would work out, but one thing was certain. They couldn’t le
ave these young people to die alone in a ruined palace.
Chapter 22
They found a clean country inn only a few miles up the Brussels road. Madame Moreau, the grandmotherly landlady, clucked over the condition of Philippe and Marie and called for her grown children to get the young couple settled in a ground-floor room.
Experienced with nursing sick people, Madame Moreau managed to get willow bark tea down Philippe, then warm beef broth and a sleeping draft so he could rest. For Marie, she provided a hip bath, hot water, and a worn but clean shift to sleep in. Marie almost whimpered with happiness. After eating two bowls of hot, nourishing soup, Marie was sleeping as soundly as her husband on the cot that had been brought in. Suzanne was grateful to let Madame Moreau take over the nursing care.
Because the inn was small and everyone ate in the common room, she and Simon weren’t alone together until they withdrew to their small bedchamber. She watched him a little warily, uncertain how he felt about the day’s events. As Simon unfastened the laces at the back of her gown, he said with dry amusement, “I didn’t expect that you’d clutch a pair of Bonapartist asps to your bosom.”
She smiled ruefully as he helped peel the gown off, his hands warm on her shoulders. “I didn’t expect it, either. But they’re kin and they’re in dire straits.”
He folded her gown over the foot of the bed and went to work unlacing her stays. “True enough about the dire straits,” he admitted, before pressing a kiss on the side of her neck that sent tingles to Suzanne’s toes. There were advantages to not having her lady’s maid with her.
As he finished with her stays, he asked, “Do you believe he is Jean-Louis’s son?”
Suzanne inhaled deeply, glad to be down to her loose shift. Turning to Simon, she replied, “He certainly looks like a Duval. Jean-Louis was in his thirties when we married. He could have sired any number of children by then.”
Simon removed his coat and cravat, revealing his broad shoulders so that he looked pleasingly informal. “You’re right about the Duval resemblance. The bigger question is whether Philippe is legitimate.”
“That’s much less likely. The story Philippe told Marie about Jean-Louis having been smitten by love for a beautiful farm girl . . . ?” Suzanne began braiding her hair. “Perhaps, but smitten by lust is much more likely. I’m sure Jean-Louis would never have stooped to marrying a girl so far beneath him. I never heard a hint of rumor that he might have had a first wife.”
Simon stripped down to his loose shirt and drawers, then pulled the covers down so they could retire. The bed was not large, so they would have to sleep close. He was fine with that. “Might he have arranged a false marriage ceremony to get a beautiful girl to lie with him?”
Suzanne frowned as she slid into the bed. “I wish I could say that he wouldn’t, but I can’t. Marie’s story sounds like the kind of lies aristocrats use to seduce pretty girls, and then cover up the existence of illegitimate children. But I’m sure Marie believes the tale, and I suspect that Philippe does, too. He has a gold Chambron signet ring that she said came from his father.”
“Jean-Louis might have had a drawer full of rings to give out,” Simon said cynically.
“Quite possibly.” Suzanne gave a sigh of relaxation as Simon drew her over to him. “Even if Philippe is legitimate, it might be difficult to prove. There has been too much chaos in France, and the château is a charred ruin along with any records that might have been stored there.”
“Do we want to allow him to succeed in his claim to be the latest Comte de Chambron? The house may be a ruin, but the lands are extensive and valuable. You have a claim on a widow’s jointure at the least.”
Suzanne said firmly, “I imagine you’re right, but proving my claim sounds time consuming and difficult. It’s much easier if I just let you support me in comfort.”
He laughed. “I’m happy to do so. You haven’t been very expensive so far. Don’t you have any desire to claim what you’re entitled to?”
“Depending on what Napoleon does, there might not be anything to claim,” she pointed out. “What about you, milord? There’s a good chance that you’re the nearest legitimate heir. Don’t you want to claim your rights?”
“Not really. I thought about it this afternoon as we were driving here. I have enough responsibilities in England, and sufficient income as well. I would be inclined to allow Philippe to have the title and estate. Since he was raised on a farm and schooled in agriculture, he’s probably better prepared to manage the lands than I would be.”
“The title and the property may be separate issues,” she said thoughtfully. “If the estate isn’t entailed to the next comte, Jean-Louis could have chosen to leave it to his illegitimate son. Perhaps Philippe will have the estate while you become the next Comte de Chambron?”
“Perhaps, though it doesn’t seem very important just now,” Simon observed. “Did Jean-Louis have a lawyer who might have his will and other legal documents?”
“Yes,” Suzanne said. “I met Monsieur Morel once and signed papers when he told me to. He lived near Paris and had an office with a number of hardworking clerks. He might still be there. He seemed like the sort of man who could survive all the political changes of the last years.”
“Maybe we can look him up later, when and if the world calms down again.” Simon stroked his hand down her side, sending curls of warmth through her. “But for now, are you interested in testing more boundaries?” His hand slid around her waist and down, coming to rest quietly with his palm on the juncture of her thighs. She felt the warmth through the soft linen of her shift.
She sucked in her breath, tense from what had happened before, when pleasure had turned to panic. But the pleasure had been real, and she dearly wanted to overcome the panic.
After a quiet moment of steeling herself to go forward, she moved her hand down his torso and discovered that he was certainly interested in what might happen. When she clasped him, it was his turn to catch his breath. She smiled into the darkness, pleased at how he reacted to her. “Perhaps we should start here to render you . . . less interested? Then we could explore those boundaries again. More carefully this time.”
He laughed and bent for a kiss, his mouth warm and provocative. “You are a brave woman to keep trying. And I am a very grateful man!”
She laughed with him, then focused on driving him a little mad. With her harem skills she could have finished him quickly, but she chose to tease and caress slowly, and she found that the intensity of his pleasure created a surprising echo in her. As his breathing quickened, so did hers. As his heat and pulse rate increased, so did hers, and lingering fears dissolved into the richness of now.
“Suzanne . . . ,” he gasped when he culminated, crushing her to his convulsing body. “Mon ange . . .”
She clung to him, shaking and aroused. When he raised her shift and touched her with exquisite skill, it was swiftly her turn to convulse. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out, for this time she felt only pleasure. Simon, Simon . . .
“Mon trésor,” she murmured when she could speak again. Safe in his arms, she drifted into sleep, thinking that someday soon, panic would be no more than a sad, distant memory and they could lie together with boring normality.
No. Sharing a bed with Simon would never be boring.
* * *
The next morning dawned sunny and pleasant. Wordlessly they indulged themselves by lingering in bed for extra minutes, just holding each other as golden bands of sunlight slowly moved across the bed.
Eventually Suzanne sighed and rolled out of Simon’s arms with a fleeting caress for his whiskery jaw. “I do so like waking up with you.”
He propped himself on one elbow and smiled at her, thinking how lovely she was with tousled morning hair and fewer shadows in her green eyes. “The feeling is mutual, ma chérie.” He stretched and swung from the bed. “Now we begin what might be a complicated day.”
He did a quick shave as she brushed out her shining dark hair. Thick
and luxuriant and with hints of auburn, her hair was always a mesmerizing sight. He was lucky he didn’t cut himself with his razor.
After they dressed and descended to the ground floor, they made their way to the bedroom at the back of the house shared by the younger Duvals. Simon tapped on the door. A couple of minutes passed before Madame Moreau emerged carrying a tray with empty mugs.
“How is Philippe?” Suzanne asked.
“The crisis has passed but he is still very ill, very weak,” the landlady replied. “He will not be able to travel for several days.”
“Would a physician help?”
“A physician couldn’t do more than I’ve done.” She sniffed. “And there is none nearby I’d trust with my dog, much less a person!”
Simon smiled, liking her plain speaking. “What about Madame Duval?”
“With warmth and food and a good night’s sleep, she is better, but fragile. Very worried for her husband, of course, plus there is her condition.”
“So they need several days of rest before traveling to Brussels,” Suzanne said.
“That is what I recommend,” the landlady said. “Now I must go and see how my kitchen is managing.”
“Thank you for all you’re doing,” Simon said. But he was not enthralled by her recommendation.
The kitchen seemed to be managing well even without the mistress. Simon and Suzanne settled at a small table by a window and were served well-flavored sausage, sweet pastries, and strong hot coffee. After a bite of the sausage, Suzanne remarked, “You look like you’re tempted to abandon our cousins here to their own devices.”
Simon smiled ruefully. “Am I that obvious? Of course we can’t leave our newfound relatives ill and alone. Even when they’re recovered, they’re going to need help to establish themselves.”
“Help and money,” Suzanne said.
He shrugged. “I can provide both.”
Once a Spy Page 16